The next afternoon, Lance and his family – a term that these days definitely comprehended JC – were back at THI, waiting in a private nook for whatever curveball Fate was going to put over the plate next.

Lance thought back to that morning’s conference call with their bandmates.

‘He what?’ Chris cried gleefully.

‘Yep. Plumb took my Palm Pilot and commenced in to going through it. I was horrified.’

‘I bet,’ Joe chuckled.

Chris was gasping with mirth. ‘God. I can see it now. 7:00 AM, wake up. Stretch as needed. 7:02, pee. Memo: wash hands thoroughly. 7:06, brush teeth. 7:09 through 7:10, floss. 7:11, fuck C. 7:39, kiss C and order breakfast –’

JC, let alone Lance, was beet red. The three on the other end of the connection were howling.

‘Like it would take twenty-eight minutes,’ Justin wheezed.

‘7:42, realize C still asleep. Fuck C again before showering....’ Joe snickered.

‘Hey!’

‘Sleepy, c’mon, we all know you can sleep through an earthquake, man –’

‘But not through Lansten rockin’ your world, ’zat it? What’s that Hemingway line? “And the earth moved under them”?’ Joey chuckled, richly.

‘Guys, you’re making my country boy blush to where I don’t think the doc’d approve.’

His eyes tightly shut in sheer embarrassment, Lance leaned into JC. ‘Now I know why Dr Cooley said I should rest at home, away from these idiots,’ he muttered.

It was embarrassing, Lance reflected. The guys had been nothing but supportive all along, they’d schemed to get him and Josh together, but – damn. And.... He felt like such a shit. Holding out on JC like some blushing schoolgirl. Oh, sure, JC had said he’d wait forever, that it would be when it was right and he was ready ... but God he felt guilty about his inability to surrender, to let go, to be intimate with Josh. God knew he wanted to. He just ... couldn’t. Not yet. He wondered if he ever could....

A trim, birdlike woman with Physician In Excelsis written all over her walked quickly in and smiled at them. ‘Lance? I’m Dr Nguyen. You may call me Alice. Dr Cooley wanted me to work with you.’

‘Are you a cardiologist too, doctor?’

Dr Nguyen smiled. ‘Oh, no. I’m a psychiatrist. We’re going to get to the root of your ulcer and all this nasty old stress.’

Lance just looked at his mother, stunned. That meeting she’d had with Denton Cooley the afternoon before.... His own mother had sold him down the river.

Diane looked back at her son, a sugar glaze on cold steel. Lance blinked: there was no fighting this one. ‘Mammy had spoken.’ And as every Southern boy knows, when cut comes to shoot, ‘if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.’ The blond slumped in his seat.

Dr Nguyen was cut from Diane Bass’s own cloth, and a schedule Nazi to boot. ‘Lance, if you’ll come with me. Just you, today. Now: we’re burning daylight....’

In Orlando, the band’s counsel and the lawyers for Jive / Zomba and for WEG were redrafting the initial plaintiff’s pleadings. Unfortunately – in the sense that F. Lee had held it unfortunate – it would, when served on Lou Pearlman and TransCon and BMG necessarily include a disclosure statement, as required. And that meant that the Cooley hole-card would be face up on the table from the get-go. That could mean an immediate settlement. It could equally mean immediate, scorched-earth war.

‘Find out,’ one of the lawyers said, ‘for certain, that none of the boys has any skeletons in his closet.’

Needless to say, it was just that sort of gutter-scavenging Lou Pearlman was engaged in: his counsel were divided between starchy, stiffly-disapproving models of rectitude – whom he did not consult regarding his dirt-digging – and a junkyard dog or two who weren’t precisely ‘told,’ for ethical reasons, but who perfectly well knew the score.

‘Outing Chasez won’t get us anywhere,’ one of the latter cautioned.

‘What will?’

‘Look, Lou, don’t get all verklempt over this –’

‘These little punks’re trying to get their hands in my pocket, and you want I shouldn’t be verklempt? I want them crushed – especially –’

‘Especially?’

‘That backwoods bastard from Mississippi. I know he’s behind this –’

‘Bass? The goody two-shoes?’

‘Too good to be true. Find me the dirt on him, and Chasez. The others are nonentities.’

‘Lance, I cannot help you get well if you refuse to talk with me.’

‘This is not something I intend to discuss. With you. With anyone. Ever.’

Dr Nguyen looked at him, head a little to one side, eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘Never? Not with anyone?’ She paused, and softly moved in for the kill. ‘What about JC?’

‘When you say “dirt,” Lou, of course you mean “material possibly useful for impeachment purposes in cross-examination” – don’t you.’ Lawyer Junkyard Dog the Elder was speaking ‘for the record.’ They all knew there is always, always, a record. None of the three men in the room trusted the others a millimeter.

‘Oh, of course,’ Pearlman replied, in the same tone. Everyone now knew the score.

He had to give Dr Nguyen credit. She had an instinct for the jugular.

He closed his eyes tightly against the threatening tears. JC. Images flashed through his mind, clips playing on the screen of his shuttered eyelids.

Jessie, horribly, appallingly dead.

The little punk in the drugstore, and the maw of the gunbarrel expanding to swallow the whole world in its black abyss as it turned towards ... towards Josh. Josh: at that moment, he’d realized, even as his body reacted, yelling a warning and launching itself into the ballistic path, that ‘JC,’ ‘Lord of the Dance,’ his ‘least favorite bandmate,’ wasn’t any of those things at all, but rather, was Josh, beautiful, soul-shaking Josh, with whom he could no longer deny he was desperately in love....

Josh, whom he would give his life for, and nearly had, and who in turn, without ever letting go of their mutual sniping – had it covered feelings on both sides for that long, he wondered uneasily – had always, always, been the one to spot impending crises, who had forced him to rest, who had worried himself into a decline if Lance so much as got the sniffles.....

Josh, putting him to bed.

Josh, spooning soup and medications into him.

Josh – outraged and embarrassed and just as obviously unwillingly delighted – at the restaurant on Lance’s birthday.

Josh, sleep-warmed and comforting, chastely beside him in bed that night, waiting for Joe and Chris to call down ice water upon their own meddling heads.

Josh, glimpsed through a delirium, racing to the hospital with him. Josh, sensed even though not seen, present even to his submerged consciousness, holding and stroking his hand as he lay in the hospital bed. Josh, murmuring broken declarations of love and pleas to God. Josh, there, there, when he came out of it....

Josh, standing in the doorway as Mama had come back into the room with his meds and more orders to ‘rest,’ Josh, haloed by the backlight through the doorjamb: an angel, a god. Josh, eyes suffused with light as he lithely, neatly caught Lance’s keys from out of the air – and it had been a breaking curveball better than any Lance had thrown for a strike off the mound, when younger – Josh, joyous and fulfilled as Lance’s words had sunk in: ‘You own it. It’s yours, forever.’

Josh, that day that Lance was allowed up again, Josh’s coiled iron and whipcord supporting his first faltering steps. The look of pure, uncloaked love and adoration on his face.... And when Lance carefully navigated his way down the hall to the stairwell, that first, tender, passionate, comforting, mind-blazing kiss – the one Mama and Daddy and Stace had walked in on, only to surround them both, laughing, crying, and venturing to hug the two of them. And Lance had actually let himself be hugged. All because of – yep. Josh.

‘Oh God,’ Lance choked. ‘Jess – Josh – oh my Lord Jesus –’

‘Hey, Chris?’

‘Hold on,’ Chris said to the caller. He clamped a hand over the phone and yelled at Joe and Justy. ‘Pipe down, will ya? I got a phone call!’

Turning back to the phone, Chris hunched his shoulders. ‘H- Howie? That you, D-man?’

‘ ’S me, CK. ’S up?’

‘Not much, man. Shit. It’s been too long –’

‘Yeah I know. And I’m sorry about that – and about a coupla horses’s asses from Kentucky, ya know? Spoutin’ shit ... I wanted you to know I’m no part of it.’

‘I know, dude. It’s all good. One thing I learned years back, my man D ain’t never gonna sell out a friend. We cool. So, bro – you just call to nail that down? Or....’

‘Nah. There’s more. Um ... there’s, like, people sniffing around lookin’ for dirt on you guys.’

‘Wha’?’

‘You know Fat Lou ain’t the type to fight fair. That hijo de una puta –’

‘I know. Fuckin’ maricon. What’s the cerdo tryin’ on now?’

‘The four-one-one is, he’s diggin’ for anything. I found out on account of a call from – you remember Vicki, that brunette at Valencia who had the thang for your scrawny elf ass? The one who the nicest thing you could say about her was “she didn’t sweat much for a fat girl”?’

‘Shit. Yeah, I remember. Tell me she hasn’t stayed in touch –’

Howie laughed. ‘Man, she’s like, in law school now and a total hottie. No shit: did a one-eighty, looks like a fuckin’ model in a beer commercial.’

‘Shit,’ Chris whined. ‘And I missed it.’

‘Anyway –’

‘Sorry, man.’ Chris got serious.

‘She gave me the heads up. The slimeball they had talk to her to ask questions about you, he told her not to tell anybody affiliated with ’N Sync – but even though he asked about us knowin’ each other –’ there was a hint of strain in D’s voice – ‘he never mentioned not callin’ me. I figure they think, because of Train and Frick, the bands hate each other so bad it didn’t matter.’

‘Hold that thought, dude. What exactly you mean, “asked about us knowing each other”?’

‘Well, fuck, Lou knows about me, so.... You do the math.’

‘That motherfucker. Hey. This isn’t gonna hurt you, is it? I mean, you’re my bud, it matters to me –’

‘I’m not the target, man. Chill. I’ll be okay.’

‘You better. Anything – anything – happens, it even looks like it’s gonna mess with you, you tell me, okay?’

‘Yes – Mom.’

‘Asshole. Now about Kev and Bri.’

‘Look, I’m sorry about that –’

‘Chill. What I was thinkin’, Fat Lou still thinks we’re all not talkin’....’

‘I might hear shit and be able to give you the word? Verdad. They still embarrass me when they act like shits to you guys, but, okay, for now I’ll let it slide so I can keep an eye out, if that’s what you want.’

‘Thanks, pal.’

‘De nada. Um ... Chris?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How’s Lance? I mean, when Bri had his heart thing –’

Chris sighed. ‘They – he’s okay. Having some tests in Houston, but he’s okay.’

There was a long pause. ‘CK, you know I really would never sell a friend out. And JC’s been sorta like an open secret.... Um. He and Lance...?’

There was an answering pause. ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’

‘Dude! Gaydar is standard equipment on this model!’

‘Smartass. Yeah, though: yeah. Just between us, yeah. You think Lou’s diggin’ for that too?’

‘That fat fuck is diggin’ for whatever he can dig, man. But he won’t get shit from me, and I’ll keep this on the downlow even with the guys. Like I say: I don’t sell out friends –’

‘– Of Dorothy. ’Cause ya know, to you, that would be “family” –’

D giggled. ‘Give it up, man. When it comes to gay humor, you’re a born straight man –’

‘That’s because I am a str–’

‘Don’t go there. Keep your day job, please.’

‘Schlotzsky’s. Here.’

Jim was grinning as he opened the bag in the suite’s common room, at the Warwick. ‘Josh, the “Original” is for you. Diane? Here, dear: ham and chicken, they say it really is like a cordon bleu on a roll. Ford; Daughter – these are yours: Turkey Original and Club. That’s mine, Jimmy –’ Lance winced, though he tried to hide it – ‘that double muffuletta: yours is this one: Dr Cooley says it’s the best smoked turkey sandwich in town. I got it with the jalapeno-cheese bread just for you. And there’re individual pizzas for everyone.’

‘Daddy, I can’t have piz– oh.’

‘Chicken breast and pesto. Smells pretty danged good, too. Josh, you need the pepper?’

‘I got it, thanks, Mist– um, Jim.’ JC was still getting used to the Basses’s having welcomed him so unreservedly. ‘What’s this?’

‘My horseradish sauce. Lance, sorry, but I had to tell them “mustard only” on your sandwich.’

‘It’s all right, Daddy: I like it best that way anyway.’

Josh smiled at his love, and at the Basses and Loftons. For a few blessed moments, it was as if everything was as it ought to be.

Lance swallowed, and blinked: he’d caught a jalapeno head-on. After chugging some iced tea – ‘ice-tea,’ one drawled word, as every Southerner from the Chesapeake to Clinton, Mississippi, to Corpus calls it – he broke the moment.

‘Daddy, thank you for this. Um. I better tell y’all now, so we don’t leave things too late, though. I’m pretty much looking to have to spend the next two-three days with Dr Nguyen. And starting at two tomorrow afternoon, Josh needs to be there, she says, and I guess the rest of y’all whenever she sees fit. I’m sorry. I thought we’d be through by now and, and, well, I’m sorry.’

‘Son –’ Jim Bass reached over to pat his son’s shoulder but stopped when Lance flinched. Apparently they were back to handshakes again. He remembered, with some guilt, what he and Diane had discussed that afternoon:

Di.... Land’s sakes, woman. I do love our son. I do just want him well – and happy. And I like JC better, if anything, than I do Ford. But I’ve had questions for years I wanted to ask, but first I wanted him to get settled and then ... well, after Jessie ... died ... there was never a time to ask. And ... dadblast it, Diane, I want to understand: that’s why I have questions. Is that wrong, to want to understand this aspect of him? I mean, with the band and all, you and I can’t very well go to a support group anymore than Jimmy can. Godda– goldarnit, is it selfish, as his father, to want to know that son of ours?